


Mycroft Holmes

by NobodyOfficial



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Insecurity, M/M, Mentions of Sexual Assault, Murder, Teen AU, Uni!lock, hes very Andrew lane, idk which, young chubby mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-29 17:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13931937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NobodyOfficial/pseuds/NobodyOfficial
Summary: Young politics student Mycroft Holmes moves in with young police officer Greg Lestrade and quickly finds himself engrossed in a murder investigation while trying to deal with family secrets of his own.~Yup, it's basically 'Sherlock Holmes' with Mycroft, and Lestrade as Watson. This was suppose to be a massive series of works but I was too young to take it on and then I kind of lost interest, but I thought it would be a waste not to share this story, I spent so much time on it.





	1. Intro

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this when I was 14, so the plot is sloppy and inaccurate and the romance cheesy and unrealistic. There are mentions of rape and Mycroft is dealing with some pretty serious eating-disorder type symptoms so please bear this in mind before you proceed.
> 
> Although I wrote this when I was really into BBC Sherlock I've based my characters on a lot of different representations, so they're not strictly teenage Graves/Gatiss.

"He's arrogant. And cocky, God, so cocky! Couldn't get a word in edge ways while the lad was talking. He's a genius, no doubts about it, but not a good one. He has this smug little smirk he always wears on his face, you just know that he knows something you don't know."  
  
"Who are we talking about again, dear?" Greg's mother interrupted, finally growing tired of her sons endless rant. He had recently outgrown his university accommodation, primarily due to the fact that he was graduating in a week, and had now settled down in a small flat just outside of central London. Having easily secured himself a job, Greg would have no problem paying the rent for the first month, but in the long term it would be far more beneficial to secure himself a room mate early on, so far to no avail.  
  
The first who had come around, Greg remembered, was old, quite a bit older than him, about forty. He had the shaved head and the tattoos of an ex prisoner, and the attitude of one too. He unnerved Greg, constantly tensing his fist and breathing down Greg's neck. So Greg did the polite thing and never spoke to him again.  
  
The second had been a drunk. Barely a year older than Greg, she had stumbled in to the flat and promptly thrown up in the sink. Greg had allowed her to stay until she seemed sober enough to walk home, but he made it very clear that they would not be reacquainting themselves any time soon.  
  
And the third? "Mycroft Holmes," Greg sighed, clenching one of his hand into a fist. "What a little sod! So audacious!"  
  
"Well, 'least he's not from prison, right? And he wasn't sick in your kitchen," Greg's mother prompted. Greg nodded reluctantly, knowing she was right. He'd been searching for a flat mate for near enough three months now, with only three letters of interest, of which this young Mister Holmes was the only person who seemed to be a fit candidate.  
  
"Is he cute?" Greg's mother continued, a smirk playing on her lips. Greg groaned.   
  
"Honestly, not now, not about him! I've already told you; just because I'm not interested in girls doesn't mean I'm interested in boys. I'm just concentrating on studies. And once I've graduated, well, then we'll see."  
  
"All right. But is he cute?" She giggled. Greg rolled his eyes, but proceeded to pull up a mental image of this Mycroft Holmes he'd met but once.  
  
He was a couple of inches shorter than Greg, although that was tall for his age, considering he had just turned eighteen. His hair was a tumbleweed of dark, ginger curls, however he hid them neatly under a blue and white striped bobble hat, despite the late summer heat. Sentimental, Greg presumed. His eyes were assumably what one would call blue, although Greg would have thought grey to be a more accurate description. Stormy grey. Perhaps the colour of the sky in winter, or maybe that of a faded tomb stone. However, despite their unfortunate colour, Mycroft's eyes were large and bright and Greg supposed that made him look rather sweet at times. He had a face full of freckles, although this was not incredibly obvious unless you were within kissing distance of him, since they were all faint and blended easily with his pale skin. Not that Greg had intended to be within kissing distance of Mycroft, of course, it just so happened that Mycroft had absolutely no regard for personal space.   
  
One thing Greg had to say about him was the he dressed exceptionally well, aside from his strange choice of hat, obviously. Mycroft wore a three piece suit, complete with a red tie and matching pocket square, an attire that shocked Greg, for his best Sunday clothes weren't even that presentable, never mind his normal Tuesday wear. Another thing that shocked Greg about Mycroft was how incredibly overweight he appeared to be. Greg didn't want to over exaggerate, it was not as if Mycroft would simply collapse from obesity at any second, but for an eighteen year old boy he seemed to have no desire to play any sort of sport (and would happily admit this), or even to walk, for that matter. He had been out of breath when Greg opened the door, and he knew the lift had been working that day. He supposed to put it nicely, and possibly as truthfully as he could, he would say Mycroft was chubby and unfit.  
  
"He's alright," Greg shrugged. "He would have the potential to be cute, if he wasn't such an obnoxious little cretin. And I guess I wouldn't say he's attractive, either." Greg remembered the way Mycroft had looked when he laughed. The way his eyes crinkled at the edges and his plump cheeks made cute dimples. And how he unconsciously tugged at both his hat strings, as if preventing himself from completely letting go and just collapsing into a fit of giggles. That was certainly awfully cute, and Greg had to admit, awfully endearing.

"I'm sure he can be a nice boy, Greg, just give him a chance," his mother urged. "If not you'll be waiting forever for a flat mate. And he sounds quite cute and quirky, I'm sure he'll learn to respect you. Just spoilt, that's all." Yes, as spoilt as four week old milk, Greg though bitterly. But even so, there had been a constant sadness lurking in Mycroft's eyes that worried Greg, and something about the way he talked that intrigued him. And the more Greg sat there and thought about allowing Mycroft to come and stay with him, the more he decided he couldn't bear the idea of ever staying with anyone else.

So it appeared that, by human error alone, Mycroft was to become Gregory Lestrade's new flat mate.

~

"Average. About as average as a man can get. But I'll have my own room to sleep in and it's in good proximity to my university."

"Oh, Myc-ey, hush. Don't be so rude," Mrs Holmes scolded. "I'm sure Gregory was lovely, don't you think dear?" She looked over to her husband, who was absorbed in the paper. He didn't notice. "I said don't you think dear!" She repeated in slightly more shrill tone, elbowing her husband, who immediately jumped to attention.

"What do I think, sorry?" Mr Holmes asked. Although he'd grown accustomed to his parents squabbling like this, Mycroft cringed.

"Don't you think Myc's being rude? And that that Gregory boy must be lovely?" She repeated. Her voice was gentle now, but her icy glare dared him to defy her.

"Yes. Yes, love," Mr Holmes murmured.

Mycroft mumbled under his breath, pretending to make an excuse to leave the room, but his mother continued to talk, denying him the exit he so desperately wanted to make. "And what does he look like, Myc? Does he have a girlfriend? Many friends?" Mycroft sighed and fixed his eyes on the floor, then pooled together everything he'd deduced about Greg to answer the question.

"Gregory is in exceptional health, he enjoys to play football more than anything, but does enjoy any sport. He's tall and slim, though well muscled, but I perceive that he's a kind man and, unlike you, would never do anything to shame me about my weight. However, I know that you're wishing he'd do something to help me lose weight, since you seem bent on driving my self esteem through the ground, but I deduce that he won't do that. He's in no way a competitive man, but he's proud and slightly shy, he'd never dare take someone like me to play with his friends for fear that I'd embarrass him. So that answers your third question; yes, he does have friends, although not close ones. He's a very funny, charming man, popular in any social situation, although he doesn't get too close to people; I can tell because he doesn't have anyone to share a flat with, despite all his friends having just finished university. As for a girlfriend, you know I can never deduce matters of the heart."

An icy silence filled the room; Mr Holmes glanced shamefully at Mycroft, and Mrs Holmes fixed him with the same cold glare he'd grown accustomed to over the years. "I'm going to see William," Mycroft said, louder than he felt like talking and with more confidence than he'd originally thought he could muster.

"Mycroft Holmes-" his mother started sharply, but her words were lost to Mycroft as he stormed out of the room and up the stairs to William's room. He reached for the handle, then stopped abruptly. He couldn't just barge in like he used to and begin complaining to William; about how everyone at university is stupid, about how all the lecturers are stupid too, about how his new roommate's stupid and how their mother's controlling and how their father's pathetic and about the most damaging ways possible to lose twenty five pounds in a month. It had been four months, but Mycroft hadn't bothered to move from his room for most of summer, so he suddenly found that it was around thirty pounds and one month to lose it in.

Maybe he could go running with Greg. Greg went running, he knew, but surely he was far too good and far too proud to go running with Mycroft. The best Mycroft could hope for was that Greg would just keep to himself and ignore him.

Getting bored of standing outside the room, Mycroft knocked gently on William's door, but then went in anyway, because he knew William wasn't going to tell him to 'come in' or 'go away'. On a good day William would go as far as allowing Mycroft to discuss politics with him. Today was not a good day.

William was curled up on his bed, staring out of the window. "Don't leave me," he whispered, as if he'd been silently talking to Mycroft for hours, without him actually being there.

"I'm not leaving you," Mycroft sighed, a heavy, heartfelt sigh that shook his frame. "I'm leaving everything. And if I could bring you I swear I would, but you have to stay here and go to school and I cannot afford to look after you." Mycroft started to sit down on the edge of his brother's bed, then quickly stood up again when the mattress dipped beneath his weight. He didn't ask to be fat; he just asked to never exercise and eat constantly and then not be fat.

"Sit your fat arse down," William said, and he said it a little bit to be mean, but also a little but to be funny and there was so much affection in his voice, more than there had been for a long time, that Mycroft couldn't be mad. So he sat his fat arse down on the edge of the bed.

"Who's going to come in my room and bore me when you're gone?" William asked softly, a playful smirking settled smugly on his lips. Mycroft scowled and lightly cuffed his brother over the head.

"Excuse me! With that attitude I cannot wait to be gone!"

"But... Who's going to tuck me in at night? And who's going to teach me deductions? And... Who's going to be my big brother?"

William's eyes glistened with tears as turned to look at Mycroft, causing his heart to ache. William didn't have any friends at school; he scared them off with talk of murder and the ability to deduce everything about them. Due to the location of their home he wasn't allowed to walk into town without Mycroft, denying him the ability to make friends outside of school, or even to visit the library. And with... Past family incidents, home wasn't exactly a place of sanctuary for William either.

Moved by rare brotherly compassion, Mycroft reached out and picked William up, hugging him tightly, his own silent tears hidden in William's messy curls. "I will never regret anything more than having to leave you," Mycroft whispered. "But I love you William, and... I love you."

"I love you too," William squeaked, trying and failing to hide his emotion. His whole body shook with sobs. William had thought about his brother leaving. They'd talked about it together. They'd even talked about when William would leave in seven years. But the idle chatter of 'you can eat pizza every night!' and 'you can stay up as late as you want!' was nothing in comparison to this goodbye. Mycroft was really leaving, and William was really getting left behind.


	2. Chapter One

An icy silence seemed to have settled over the Holmes' household. Mycroft found himself almost tiptoeing around the house in fear of making a sound. Mrs Holmes seemed to have the opposite idea.

"Mycroft Holmes!" She slammed a glass down on the table. "Hurry up or you're going to miss your train!"

Mycroft sighed as he sat down at the kitchen table, reaching for the orange juice. Mrs Holmes slapped his hand away and passed him the water jug instead. A nauseous feeling swept over Mycroft as his breath caught in his throat for a moment, but after a deep calming gulp of air and the realisation that his mother was right, he took the jug.

The silence settled once again, so Mycroft began to sing softly to himself, his sweet, still slightly childish, voice echoing off the arched ceiling. "And I know, it's only in my mind. And that I'm TALKING to myself, and not to-"

"Oh hush!" Mrs Holmes interrupted suddenly, a scowl creasing her face. "That silly musical nonsense again, it's not for you, Mycroft."

"But mummy-" Mycroft tried. She held a hand up for silence, so naturally he relented and shut up. He'd been trying to tell her that he'd been practising, and that he could now perfectly match the tone and pitch of any singer's voice, but, as usual, she only cared about his academic interests. Where his brother's talents lay in both acting and dancing, Mycroft found himself fascinated with the emotion a song could portray, and the trickery that came with being able to mimic other people's voices. He was a natural with pitches and tones, and lots of practice had given him a strong, diverse singing voice. Accompanied with his grade eight piano skills and incredibly charismatic fake persona, Mycroft could have easily made a career for himself in the world of music.

Mycroft reached for an apple, but again his mother pushed his hand away, though this time in a rushed way and not to be degrading. "No time for that dear, come along, or you'll be late." Reluctantly he got up from the table and made his way out into the hall, where his father was waiting, a wistful smile on his lips. Mycroft began to walk up to him, then suddenly found himself in a rib-crushing embrace.

"Look at you," Mr Holmes beamed, smiling down at his son. "Look how grown up you are! And I'm going to miss you growing up now." He gently pulled Mycroft's head against his chest, right next to his heart. "But I'm so proud of you. I hope you have a good time at uni, and I hope this Gregory's going to look after my little boy for me." He leaned back and lifted Mycroft's hat up a little, so that he could kiss his forehead.

"Father, I can look after myself," he giggled, but secretly he wanted to cling to his father's coat and never let go. Mycroft detested change, and this was about to be the biggest one of his life.

"Go on Mycroft, go and make me even prouder," Mr Holmes smiled. Before Mycroft could reply, he stopped him, a gentle finger on his son's lips. He whispered softly, "Even if that means singing in the West End, and not becoming Prime Minister."

"Thank you, dad," Mycroft replied, equally as quietly. Mr Holmes smiled nostalgically at his eldest son.

"You're going to be a super star, little one."

"Not so," Mrs Holmes interrupted, stepping between Mycroft and her husband. "This super star nonsense isn't for our boy; I raised an academic. You're going to get a desk job, aren't you, Myc?" Mycroft stared at his shoes, feeling small and insignificant. She had raised an academic, that academic just wasn't Mycroft.

"How wonderful that you have my whole future planned out," Mycroft frowned. He turned round to look for William, ignoring his mother's shocked look.

"I don't like this new attitude, young man!" She gasped, grabbing Mycroft's wrist to bring his attention back to her. "I hope this isn't what you're going to be like every holiday."

"I hope I don't have to come home for every holiday," he snapped in reply, catching sight of William cowering behind the banisters. Knowing that he wouldn't want to step straight in to the current war zone, Mycroft tipped his head slightly to indicate that William was to climb out of the window and meet him outside. He scampered off, and only seconds later Mycroft heard the sound of William's bedroom window opening.

With only a sad glance to his father, Mycroft pulled himself from his mother's grasp, a feeling much like removing hand cuffs, then turned and walked out of the house that had held him prisoner for the past eighteen years. "I know the meaning of those nineteen years, a slave of the law," he sang softly, under his breath, a joyful smirk playing on his lips.

"And I'm Will, do not forget my name!" William jumped out from around the corner of the house, grinning from what he'd just said, but it looked as though he'd been crying. Eyes ringed red. Face pale.

Drug addict. Drug addict. Drug addict.

Mycroft stumbled back at the sudden deduction, shocked. He panicked and grasped at his heart as if he was having a heart attack, all too aware of how quickly it was beating. William, tiny, precious William, would never, could never, do such a thing. But didn't he display all the behaviours of... No! Mycroft scolded himself. It was wrong. A wrong deduction. Seeing William so hurt had simply throw him off guard, he'd caught a glimpse of something that wasn't there. He was wrong, that was the only explanation. So he ignored it.

"Come here, Billy," Mycroft said softly. Drug addict! his brain screamed as he knelt down to hug his brother. "William, I will miss you so much. And I will visit you whenever I can-"

"I can't do this without you! I love you Mycroft, I can't live with... With this, I don't understand!" Tears began to flood down William's cheeks again. It was killing Mycroft to see his brother so distressed. "I don't know what I'll do... My mind palace... I need an escape... I-" Mycroft pressed a finger against William's lips before he could continue. All this talk of an escape, that just wouldn't do.

"Caring, dearest brother, is not an advantage," Mycroft whispered, kissing William's cheek. It was true, he thought. Because he cared about William, and right now that was tearing him apart. He stood up and began to walk to the black car that was waiting for him, already loaded with his bags.

"No!" William screamed, running after him. "Mycroft... Caring... Mycroft, I... Don't forget! Don't leave me! I don't... Mycroft... Myc!" He was hysterical. William dropped to his knees, sobbing. Mycroft didn't turn around, but watched the events play out from the reflection in the car window. William screamed and sobbed. Mrs Holmes stormed out the house to see what all the fuss was about. She yelled at William. She slapped him. Mr Holmes fumed at her and snatched William away. William sobbed. William screamed for Mycroft. Mycroft slid into the car, and with two taps to the back of the seat, he was off for London.

One thought, however, was whizzing through his mind throughout the entire journey. Drug addict. Drug addict. Drug addict.

~

Greg poked hesitantly at the body with the toe of his shoe. "Well, he's dead," he said nonchalantly. There was a stream of blood pouring from a gash in his neck.

"Good observation, Lestrade," Tobias Gregson sneered, cuffing Greg over the head. "I don't know why we're investigating, we've clearly found our man," Tobias continued. "We caught it on tape, remember? That man entered this man's house an hour ago. Ten minutes later that man ran from this man's house. No one else entered. No one else left. I don't see why you made us keep the case open."

"It's not him, Toby, I'm telling you!" Greg stressed, knotting a hand in to his thick, brown hair. "I can't put my finger on it, it's just not him. I just need a way to prove it. I need a thing... A thing that can... I don't know, see what I'm seeing then tell me what I'm not seeing. You see?"

"Lost me at the first 'see', Greg. Sorry mate. Anyway, nothing more to see here, body needs to go to a post mortem. Let's head back."

Greg followed his partner out of the house, after taking one last look at the body and the room, then stepped out into the drizzling London lunchtime. "Well, I've got a half day to go meet my new flatmate, I expect you to keep investigating," Greg said, pulling his collar up against the wind.

"And I expect to find nothing," Tobias smirked. Rolling his eyes, Greg punched him playfully in the arm.

"This is serious! I know it's not him!"

"Ok, I'm kidding," Tobias laughed. "I promise I'll look into it, but I can't promise I'll find anything. Alright?"

"Yeah, thanks mate," Greg nodded.

He crossed the street, then headed to the nearest bus stop, the crime scene being a good half hour's walk from his flat. The bus was full of old people; everyone else being at work. They all looked so lonely, Greg thought. He never wanted to be that alone. He wanted to fall in love and grow old with someone he cared about; to one day sit in front of the fire and tell old stories from when they were young. And, although he'd never admit to his mum that she was right, he didn't particularly mind what gender that person was. He'd had a girlfriend over the summer, a girl he'd been friendly with at uni, but when they broke up he'd then spent numerous nights with a boy he'd met in a bar. After that summer he no longer felt so confused.

Greg stepped off the bus at a stop thirty seconds walk from his block of flats, which was just across the street. There was a large, ominous, black car parked just in front of the bus stop, which caused Greg to warily skirt around it to get to his front door. The car made no move to set off, but at the same time no one made a move to get out, so with the assumption he was safe Greg turned to fish out his keys and open the door.

"Greetings." A silky voice purred.

"Argh!" Greg yelled involuntarily and turned, visions of a Lycra-clad assassin slitting his throat the second he showed his face, but it was only Mycroft, who stepped back into the road, equally terrified by Greg's sudden shock at seeing him. Panicking at the sight of an oncoming taxi, Greg grabbed Mycroft's jacket to hurriedly pull him back onto the pavement, both boys breathing heavily with shock. "Jesus! Where did you come from?!" Greg exclaimed, lightly shaking Mycroft before letting him go.

"Oh, you know, about," Mycroft shrugged breezily. Greg sighed and shook his head tiredly, then pulled the key from his pocket and opened the door. It was cold and damp inside, a disappointment.

"The lift's broken, let me take your bags," Greg offered Mycroft, his foot wedged against the door to keep it open. The entrance and stairs to Greg's flat's were rather dismal, smelling generally of spray paint and human waste, but at least fifty percent of the residents were friendly, the rent was fairly cheap, and Greg had made himself a rather homely apartment inside.

"My... Bags?" Mycroft asked, indicating to the two World-War-Two-style trunks by his sides.

"Yeah... Unless you've brought anything else I should know about," Greg smirked, helping Mycroft to take off his rucksack and slipping it on to his own back.

"No, nothing of importance," Mycroft said seriously. "But I can't let you take all my belongings." Greg noticed that when Mycroft spoke, he spoke to the floor, unable to meet his gaze.

"I suppose you're right," Greg nodded, trying to catch Mycroft's eye but failing grandly. "You carry that." He pointed to a small bag slung over Mycroft's shoulder, which was filled with things he considered most important, such as his wallet and his passport and a small, red notebook. Before Mycroft could protest, Greg grabbed both of his bags and set off quickly up the stairs. Mycroft shrugged and followed, confused but grateful at the fact that he didn't have to carry his bags.

Greg was clearly struggling under the weight of the luggage, plus their flat was eight flights of stairs up, but he was determined to be a gentleman. He wanted to make a good first impression on Mycroft, and he wanted him to feel secure and comfortable around him. He took a sideways glance at Mycroft, who was staring down at the steps and lightly tapping his fingers together. It was something Greg often did when he went on long runs, the rhythm helped him to keep a steady pace.

The warm colour of Mycroft's suit stood out against the cold grey of the wall, and the cut of his pants was clearly not suitable for climbing; overall he just looked out of place. It would be a challenge, helping Mycroft to fit in in London; a challenge Greg found himself overly eager to take on.

"We've made it!" Greg proclaimed breathlessly as they reached the fourth floor. He shuffled weakly down the corridor before depositing Mycroft's bags in front of his flat door. Greg turned to look at Mycroft. He was red in the face, clearly overheating because of his hat, his eyes looked distant, as if he was about to faint, and he was breathing heavily. Still he was blatantly refusing to look Greg in the eye. "Thanks," Greg smiled suddenly.

"Ex-excuse me?" Mycroft panted. He reached to take his hat off, but hesitated and decided not to.

"Thanks for pretending to be out of breath, just because I'm dying. It's sweet of you," Greg continued, tilting his head to the side slightly as Mycroft raised his a little.

"But I'm not-"

"Thanks," Greg interrupted before Mycroft could finish. He shot him a shy smile and was rewarded with a cute half-smirk and a flash of Mycroft's gorgeous, stony eyes. "You might want to take your hat off too, it's a little hot in here," he added as he opened the flat door. When he turned around again Mycroft had unleashed his thick, corkscrew curls, which refused to settle around his head due to the heat. Greg chuckled. "Wow, your hair is really something, Holmes."

"I've always thought it was rather mediocre, if an unfortunate colour," Mycroft shrugged, patting at his hair to try and help flatten it.

"It's the colour of... A ginger biscuit, dipped in dark coffee," Greg mused. Mycroft looked utterly confused. "I like that colour," Greg laughed. "And it suits you."

Greg lead Mycroft in to his room, which had been completely empty the last time he'd seen it. Now it was fully furnished and tastefully, if plainly decorated: three walls were plain white, but the one behind the bed was a dark red, with a small window in the middle. There was a double bed just below the window, made of cheap wood and quite obviously (at least to Mycroft) second hand, but it was hard wearing and sturdy. The bedside table and wardrobe matched the bed wood, but the small desk against one wall was made of a beautiful mahogany.

"When you said you couldn't bring any of your stuff with you, I umm... I pulled in a few favours and tried my hand at a bit of decorating. Just never look at the skirting board on the back wall and you're good!" Greg paused, waiting for a response, then when one didn't come, said, "So... Is it ok? I know you come from a big fancy home and stuff so... Yeah."

"I shall pay you what it cost, Gregory," Mycroft smiled. Greg watched Mycroft's face for any sign of emotion, but saw nothing. It didn't look as though he hated it, which was a consolation, but there was clearly no signs of joy in his face. It was the expression Greg generally associated with young children getting clothes for Christmas; they knew they were useful, so weren't disappointed, but didn't understand why they couldn't have just been given more toys.

"Is it... Is it ok then?" Greg tried again, watching Mycroft closely.

"I did say it was adequate," Mycroft replied, his forehead creasing it slightly with a frown. "Apologies, did you misunderstand? Gosh, I did say it in English, didn't I? I have a terrible habit of sometimes slipping into French." Greg was still utterly baffled, but his brain had abandoned its previous task and was now trying to figure out if Mycroft was actually English or if it was just an accent he put on.

"I am English." Greg froze. He didn't believe in mind readers, but it had been a good few seconds since Mycroft last spoke, and Greg didn't believe he'd done anything to provoke further discussion on the topic. "But my great grandmother was French, and I'm bilingual. I prefer English, but my French is equally as fluent and as accurate. Please, do correct me if I begin to speak in any other language, not only French." With that problem out the way, Greg moved straight back to the topic of decoration.

"Oh, for god's sake! Do you want me to do it again or not?" He demanded suddenly. Mycroft shrank back a little and Greg felt awful, he hadn't meant to snap, but he felt frustrated and all Mycroft was doing was going off on a tangent. He took a step back and hunched his shoulders a little, to show he wasn't being threatening.

"Oh," Mycroft said softly. "Apologies. I'm doing the thing, aren't I? The inhuman thing?"

"Sorry?" Greg asked.

"I have a habit of... Missing the point sometimes." He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. "You see, I believed that you were asking me if the room was ok. And, yes, it is an ok room. But instead you were asking me about my emotions, were you not?"

Greg nodded. "Yeah..."

"But I'm afraid I'm not terribly good at displaying my emotions. I find it hard and it often makes me feel weak or inferior, so I prefer not to. However I've learnt that other people find this strange, so I'm sorry." Again, Mycroft kept his eyes fixed on the floor.

"Oh, well umm..." Greg faltered. "What emotion do you want to... Display?" Mycroft pursed his lips and thought for a second, then said,

"Gratitude, would be nice."

Greg put his hands on Mycroft's shoulders and turned him until they were facing, then gently tilted Mycroft's chin up until he was looking into his eyes. "Well, when someone does something that you're grateful for, you normally start with, 'thank you'. Then you tell them why you're thankful, and if you know them well you can hug them or something. Oh! And smile!" Mycroft frowned, not a smile, but something Greg found quite cute.

"I don't like the sound of this 'hugging' business, I'd rather not 'touch people'. But I suppose I'll get used to it." Greg quickly let go of Mycroft's shoulders, but he didn't seem to notice.

Secure with the knowledge that Mycroft at least found he room 'ok', Greg left Mycroft settling into his new home and headed for the kitchen, but was stopped by the phone ringing on the way. He sighed and picked it up. "Greg Lestrade, hello?" He answered.

"Greg, I just found something amazing!" Tobias exclaimed happily.

"Great, ok, what is it?" Greg asked, beginning to twirl the phone wire. It was a bad habit that left it eternally kinky and often found his hands tangle when he tried to hang up.

"The killer could've got in from the back!" Tobias said jubilantly. Greg sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Toby, we're not that stupid. I said that." He was more than disappointed. He'd been expecting real evidence.

"Sorry, maybe that was wrong phrasing; the killer definitely got in from the back! I mean, we have no cctv tapes from there, and when I was looking over the pictures I found a footprint!" Tobias told Greg proudly.

"Wait, just one?" Greg asked, confused and exhilarated.

"Yeah, just one! Come on, come check it out!"

"Look, I'd love to..." Greg started, trailing off. He looked sideways, through Mycroft's door, where he was singing Wicked songs and hanging suits up, pretending each hanger was a microphone. "But my roommate's barely got here, I can't leave him."

"What's he like?" Tobias asked, and Greg could hear the playful smirk in his voice.

"I swear I've already told you, and I swear I don't think of him like that. And I never will!" Tobias was the only person who knew Greg was bisexual, but he merely took it as a challenge to find him a date.

"But he's sweet and awkward," Greg continued anyway. "I like making him smile, seems like he doesn't have much to smile about. He looks cute when he smiles. Innocent." Greg stopped himself before he said anything else that weird. He just hoped it hadn't sounded as strange to Tobias.

"Du-ude!" Tobias laughed. "You've so got it for this boy! Course you don't think of him like 'that', because this one's not just for sleeping with! You're in love with him! And I'll be damned if he doesn't feel something for you too, no one normal smiles that sweetly at their friends." Greg brushed it off and decided to change the topic.

"Can I come over tomorrow to check out the house?" He offered, unable to wipe the blush from his cheeks.

"No!" Tobias exclaimed in reply. "It's suppose to rain, hard proper rain, it'll be washed away. Heck, bring your roommate, this is important!" And before Greg could refuse he hung up.

Flapping his hands about like a mad chicken to untangle them from the phone wire, Greg reluctantly stood up and leaned casually against Mycroft's doorframe. "Do you want to... Come and see a dead man's house?" He stifled a laugh.

"I do beg your pardon," Mycroft frowned. Greg giggled at his funny phrasing, as he did find Mycroft's way of speaking quite strange.

"My partner just called, he found something for the case we're working on. I thought you'd rather come than be left alone," he said. Mycroft blushed, clearly quite touched.

"Thank you. I appreciate it because I am new to this city, and I would also like to see more of it. I shall not hug you." Greg chuckled and beamed at Mycroft, who was watching him hopefully to see if he'd done well.

"Come on then. Take a jacket, it's drizzling," he said, beckoning for Mycroft to follow him, who pulled his hat back on and eagerly followed Greg in to the living room.

"So, you're a police officer?" Mycroft asked as Greg pulled a thin rain mac on.

"Yeah," he nodded, wondering where the conversation was going. Mycroft didn't strike him as someone to be interested in police work.

"And is it... Thrilling?" Mycroft continued. Greg shrugged in response.

"It's alright, yeah. Why? Thinking of joining the force?" He smirked. Mycroft hadn't yet told him what course he was taking at university.

"Not at all," Mycroft replied, a little too quickly, amusing Greg. "I was just thinking of my brother. He needs a lot of distractions, you see. Has to be busy all the time."

"Oh, ok. Are you close?" Greg asked, holding the door open for Mycroft.

"We were," he sighed, his eyes suddenly taking on a dazed, distant look. "But I have a feeling I've just let our relationship crumble."

~

Mycroft hadn't spoken since Greg had asked about his relationship with William. He felt truly awful for leaving him, and couldn't help but think that when he went home William would be holding a firm, life-long grudge against him. For the entire bus journey to New Scotland Yard Mycroft had been brainstorming ways to make it up to William, but he couldn't quite come up with anything. Mostly because he felt light headed and a little dizzy. He'd previously brushed it off as the heat on the bus, but now he was shaking and every step made him want to melt in to a puddle on the floor. So now his thoughts were firmly fixed on what on earth could be wrong.

Greg was busy trying to introduce him to a young intern behind the desk, but Mycroft felt agitated and short-tempered. "He plays football with you," Mycroft snapped, in reference to the intern. "He's studying to be a police officer, maybe a DI like you want to be. Girlfriend left him when she moved away to university. He drinks black coffee. Doesn't smoke. You do, by the way." He tried to lightly elbow Greg, but misjudged massively and almost fell over. Greg rather harshly but effectively caught his waist.

"Easy mate," he said softly, helping Mycroft to stand up straight again. "You feeling alright? It's natural to feel a bit off when you first leave home."

"I assure you that's... That's not the... The case," Mycroft wheezed, doubling over from sharp shooting pains in his stomach. Suddenly panicked, Greg took a secure hold on his shoulders. "I think you should come and sit down," he said worriedly. Mycroft nodded firmly, attempting to reassure Greg that he was ok, but the second Greg let go of his shoulders his vision swam and his legs gave out. Muscular arms caught his shoulders before he could hit the floor, but he wasn't aware of much else...

Someone whispered, at least it sounded like a whisper to Mycroft, to Greg, who sounded unsure as he replied. This worried Mycroft. He felt much better now, but couldn't bring himself to move or open his eyes. For one stupid moment he wondered if he'd died, but then he felt someone, the intern, gently touch his cheek (dry hands from being outside a lot) then pull his hat off. Something hard was shoved beneath his heels, slightly elevating his legs, and suddenly his headache subsided a little. Mycroft wriggled and struggled to get up, but someone held him gently to the floor. This just made him panic and snap open his eyes, desperate to get up.

"Hey, calm it," Greg said softly. "Just stay still for a minute, Dimmock went to get you some water. What happened? Are you... Prone to fainting?" Mycroft blinked long and hard to clear his thoughts, then shifted in to a slightly more comfortable position, which caused Greg to fuss over him and try to help.

"I'm not generally prone to fainting, but it's become much more common over the past month," he said weakly.

"Have you been doing anything differently? Taking a new medication or something?" Greg asked. Mycroft closed his eyes again and pretended not to have heard. He didn't want to tell Greg anything. Instead of pressing him, Greg undid the buttons on Mycroft's jacket and pulled it back off his shoulders, to help him cool down, then said, "Your waistcoat's beautiful, is it foreign?"  
"My father went to India last year, working. He brought William back a dead lizard, but said that didn't seem appropriate for me."

Mycroft smiled at the memory. William had only been ten, and he'd missed their father fiercely while he was away. They'd all been much closer last year. Last year before... Before Mycroft did something wrong. William had been allowed to stay up late, to see their father come home. The first thing he said was, "Did you bring me anything dead back?" And had promptly been handed a tin which contained the skeleton of a large, native lizard. Mycroft had then been given his waistcoat, which his father said made him look very grown up, but his mother said made him look fat. William agreed that it made him look fat, but also said that it looked very nice and didn't make him look nearly as fat as other things did. Mycroft took it as a compliment. And then... No! Mycroft scolded himself. That was it. Nothing else happened. That was it.

"Mycroft?" He realised Greg was staring down at him questioningly. "Sorry, I asked if William was your brother."

"Oh, yes, my younger brother. My only sibling," Mycroft said firmly.

"Well, I'm glad he didn't bring you back a dead lizard, because you look nice," Greg blushed. Mycroft wondered if he should get Greg's opinion on whether the waistcoat made him look fat or not, but decided he couldn't live with the answer if it was a 'yes'. He didn't understand why he suddenly valued Greg's opinion, but thought he should steer clear of it until he did.

"Here's your water!" Dimmock tripped on the linoleum and spilt a quarter of what was left of the water on to Greg's trousers. Greg frowned, but thanked him anyway and took the water, then kicked away the crate he'd put Mycroft's heels on to help him sit up. Mycroft winced and lightly gripped his waist, the pain having subdued to a prolonged, sharp tingling, and reached to take the cup, before realising that his hands were shaking uncontrollably and that probably wasn't the best idea. "You need to eat something," Dimmock said seriously. They both turned to him, Mycroft with fear in his eyes and Greg with intrigue. He'd been wearing a goofy smirk since they'd met, but was now watching Mycroft with genuine concern. "Look at him, Lestrade. He's shaking. His face is pale. His stomach hurts. Stop starving your roommate!"

"Shove off, Dimmock! I'm not! Go get your bloody biscuits then, I know you keep some behind the desk." Greg put an arm around Mycroft's shoulders, gently at first to make sure he was ok with it, then once Mycroft had nodded slightly in confirmation, a little more securely, to stop him falling back on to the floor again. Greg leaned close to Mycroft and whispered, "I'll guilt trip Toby in to buying us some pizza. Get loads of toppings and drink milkshake, he owes me for today. But then I'm taking you home, so that you can go to sleep." Unable to argue, Mycroft shrugged weakly, because at that moment sleep sounded excellent.

Dimmock tripped over the crate upon his return and swore, but passed Greg a red pack of biscuits. "Woah, mate, these are good biscuits!" Greg grinned.

"My tea biscuits aren't very sugary, theses ones have chocolate, I figured they'd be better," Dimmock shrugged, awkwardly scuffing his shoes.

"Thank you. I appreciate your kindness. I will not be hugging you," Mycroft said in a robotic tone. Dimmock frowned, then frowned harder when Greg started to laugh.

"Something I taught him earlier," he chuckled. He turned to Mycroft. "Don't think you quite got the idea, mate."

"He's a right weirdo, Greg, where'd you find him?" Dimmock asked, back to his usual cocky self. "All that stuff he was reeling off before, I haven't told you most of that!"

"He's just really smart, don't be an ass," Greg sighed. Mycroft was now sat up on his own, licking the chocolate off a biscuit and watching the two friends fight. He found it quite amusing how they were fighting out of companionship, rather than to actually accomplish anything. And neither of them were really being mean, which was a consolation.

"Come on Mycroft, we'd better go and get Toby so that we can get you home," Greg said. "Shove some biscuits in your mouth; take the pack." Before Dimmock could protest he added, "I'll buy you some biscuits tomorrow. Just so that my roommate doesn't starve." He shot Mycroft a warm smile, who had given up licking chocolate off the biscuits and was now shoving as many as he could in to his mouth, one after the other. After helping him up, Greg lead the way to a lift (that actually worked) and up to the second floor.

"Toby'll make you some tea, if you like," Greg offered, sitting Mycroft down on a sofa and wandering out in to the sea of desks before he got an answer. Mycroft shrank back into the sofa cushions and tried not to meet anyone's gaze. Having been home schooled for the first eleven years of his life, it was high school where Mycroft had learnt the majority of his social skills. There he'd learnt; avoid eye contact, only speak when spoken to, anyone your age is off limits to speak to, never let anyone know you have ginger hair, your weight is always a problem, even when it's not, if you've just met someone it's most likely that they don't like you. All this had made him a shy, pessimistic person who felt awkward when not alone and felt compelled to hate himself constantly. At that moment, sat in front of so many desks and with the prospect of meeting one of his roommate's friends looming, Mycroft feared an actual heart attack.

"Tea!"

"Argh!" Mycroft jumped back and clutched at his chest, before releasing it was just Greg stood in front of him, and a beaming, tall, muscular boy with a lot of blond hair and a cup of tea. Greg snatched the tea off the boy with a glare and passed it to Mycroft, who took a sip without taking his eyes off the pair.

"Oh God, Greg!" Tobias sighed, grinning at Mycroft. "Oh dear God, he's so cute, Greg. He's so, so, so cute! Look at his curls, they're so cute! His eyes are so cute! Aww, Greg, he's so cute!"

"Calm the fuck down and leave him alone, Tobes," Greg smirked, stepping protectively in front of Mycroft. "We're taking him home now, but first you're buying us pizza."

"Hey! How did we get onto pizza?" Tobias protested.

"Unless you want him-" Greg turned around and poked Mycroft in the shoulder, "to die then you have to buy him food. I think he-" He paused and turned to look at Mycroft, who was dipping biscuits in his tea, then stood on his tiptoes and whispered something to Tobias, who made a soft 'oh' sound and nodded.

Mycroft knew perfectly well what Greg was saying, but he was more touched than annoyed at the fact that Greg was looking out for him. In the mean time he busied himself deducing Tobias. He was twenty five, in a happy relationship, came from somewhere further north than London, possibly Durham or Leeds, Mycroft needed to hear him talk more. He played football with Lestrade, but preferred rugby, and was a very strong swimmer. He preferred milky tea with plain, no chocolate, digestive biscuits and he often worked late. Mycroft smiled proudly.

"Alright, best head off so that we can get you home quickly," Greg said, taking Mycroft's almost-finished tea and passing the cup to an annoyed Tobias. As soon as Greg headed off Mycroft reached hopelessly for his tea cup back, to which Tobias happily obliged.

"He's a great guy, Greg," he said. "Smart, funny, sweet. Always puts others ahead of himself, would go to the ends of the earth for certain people, and I have a feeling you're fast becoming one of those people. But once he's on a case, you're done for. Nothing else will be more important until that case is-"

"Toby! Raining! Mycroft home! Let's go!" Greg yelled.

"See," Tobias smirked, tilting his head to indicate that Mycroft could leave his empty tea cup on the table. "But I like the way he looks at you, Mycroft. Something you've done has earned a great deal of his respect, and you're never gonna lose that, mark my words."

~

Heavy rain drops fell from the hood of Greg's jacket and onto his nose, where they then slid down his cheeks, giving the impression he was crying. He may as well have been; it had started to pour the minute they left, washing away any evidence in the garden, but in his haste to close the case, Greg had dragged Mycroft and his half-finished pizza with them. Now Mycroft was sat on the back doorstep of the house, Tobias' umbrella leant against his shoulder to keep both him and the pizza dry, while Greg and Tobias stomped around the garden, not really looking for anything in particular but angry that their one lead may have just been washed away.

"Oh, it's hopeless!" Greg exclaimed eventually, stamping his foot on the single stepping stone in the grass. "Let's just go, I'm sorry I dragged you out here, Mycroft."

"Hey! You dragged me out here too!" Tobias moaned. He'd given Mycroft his rain mac (which completely drowned him) so his shirt was now thoroughly soaked.

"You're on duty!" Greg retorted.

"Well, you dragged me out for a perfectly good reason," Mycroft piped up, causing both the police men to turn and frown at him. "Sorry," Mycroft said quickly, a sheepish look on his face. "I didn't mean to interrupt, I thought I was being helpful."

"No, no! Mycroft, you are!" Greg gushed enthusiastically, kneeling down in front of him. "What do you see? What do you see that we don't?"

"Ok, there was obviously a washing line." Mycroft pointed to an empty space in the garden. Greg and Tobias turned, stared, then quickly turned back to Mycroft.

"What?" They exclaimed in unison.

Mycroft stood up and held the umbrella out to Tobias. "Hold, please," he beamed. Tobias took the umbrella, then took a step back. "No!" Mycroft wailed, grabbing the umbrella handle and pulling it back over his head. "Hold here!"

"You really hate the rain, don't you?" Tobias chuckled.

Mycroft nodded grimly, then said, "Gregory, if you would." He passed the almost-empty pizza box to Greg, and indicated that he was to keep it under the umbrella too, to keep it dry and edible. "Good, ok so-" Mycroft took a step forward and both boys hurried to keep up. Once in the middle of the garden, he crouched down. "There's a hole in the grass here, circular in shape, about two inches deep, I'm assuming as I really don't want to stick my fingers into the hole." Both Tobias and Greg chuckled. Mycroft wouldn't have understood what he'd said even if they explained it to him. "And then-" he continued, jumping up and taking five hurried steps forward. "Here! Another hole, and in line with that one."

"How did we not see that?" Greg mused.

"You're seeing, you are seeing, you're just not observing!" Mycroft said gleefully. He turned and took two steps back towards the house.

"And here, the footprint!"

"No, it must've been washed away," Greg sighed. Mycroft crouched down again and pushed some grass out of the way. "Not at all, look, an indent in the mud. Size ten shoes, but very thin soles, so from that we can see that these weren't the murderer's actual size, so... I rather do think they were about a size seven, thin feet, so I'd say a young person or a woman."

'He's brilliant!' Tobias mouthed to Greg, who smiled smugly. He felt awfully, incredibly proud of Mycroft. He was his roommate. He was his friend. And he was amazing.

"So, then, knowing what we do," Mycroft rushed breathlessly, "we must assume that there was only one footprint because they jumped from the wall-" he paused to point at a wall that was just about over his head and just about at Tobias' shoulders, "then tried to swing off the washing line, but obviously it wasn't as far wedged in the ground as they thought it was, so they were forced to put one foot down. But the combined momentum of the jumped from the wall and the half-hearted swing was enough to get them from the wall to the back step with just putting one foot down. That means it was most likely a younger person, as they were evidently inexperienced with how washing lines work and also had the stupidity to assume they could swing like Tarzan." Mycroft took a very deep breath, then reached out to a flabbergasted Greg for his pizza back.

"Not doubting you or anything, very impressed, but how do we know you're not just guessing?" Tobias asked. Mycroft just started at him, wide eyed, half a slice of pizza hanging from his mouth. "I mean, what if the washing line hasn't been here for years?"

"Walk along the lane behind the house for about two minutes in each direction, if you find a washing line bring it to me," Mycroft stated simply.

"Oh, come on! It's raining! And I might not even find anything," Tobias complained.

"Just go," Greg said dismissively, taking the umbrella from Tobias. He sighed and headed out the back gate.

"Mycroft, that was amazing!" Greg exclaimed, grabbing Mycroft shoulders so suddenly he looked like a startled rabbit. "You're amazing! How did you know all that? Where did that come from? You're incredible!"

"I should've found more," Mycroft mumbled sulkily, stepping out from under the umbrella and sitting sadly down on the step. Greg sat down beside him, being careful to keep him dry.

"What do you mean? What else could you have possibly gather from that? Mycroft, you're... God, I don't know! I can't possibly think of what you are, that was fantastic!" Mycroft just shrugged in response.

"I don't know. I could do better. If I could actually get onto that wall then I could probably tell you how heavy they are, how tall they are, how they got into the house. But I cannot. I am so useless!" Mycroft tensed one of his hands into a tight fist, effectively controlling all of his anger in to one place, then in a slow breath he let it out.

"You're not useless, you're amazing. You're brilliant. I never would've seen... Never would've observed that. Now we know their shoes size, their rough age, and that if they were male they can't have been much older than twenty one. Unfortunately that doesn't rule out our only suspect, but it allows us to eliminate most people that man knew. Mycroft... You're just fantastic! It doesn't matter about what you can't do, when what you can do is so amazing!" Greg put his hand lightly on Mycroft's shoulder, turning him to face him. "Mycroft, you are incredible."

"You," Mycroft whispered softly, a grin slowly spreading across his face.

"Um, yeah?" Greg questioned.

"You!" Mycroft jumped up, jubilant, knocking the umbrella off both him and Greg. "I can't do it, but you can!" He beamed. Greg opened and closed his mouth, like a goldfish, but there was no stopping Mycroft now.

"Ok, ok," he repeated excitedly, wandering around the garden. "Ok Gregory, get up on the wall! Mind the footprint though... About here!" Mycroft pointed to a specific brick on the wall. "Ok, ok! And then you need to jump off, like you're being stealthy though." Greg stood up slowly, reluctant and shocked.

"Are you sure this'll help, Mycroft?" He asked dubiously, looking up at the high wall. Maybe Tobias should do it...

"Yes! Of course, it's simple, elementary!" Mycroft gushed, pushing Greg towards the wall. He grabbed hold of the top of the wall and began to scramble his feet on the rain-slick brick. Mycroft attempted to hold the umbrella over Greg's head, but just kept hitting him with it until he grew annoyed and told Mycroft to bugger off. Mycroft laughed and repeated the swear word several times, committing it to memory.

Moments late Tobias burst through the gate just as Greg managed to get his balance on top of the wall. He was proudly holding a washing line, several pegs still swinging from it and a sopping wet tie at one end. "Got i-" he started, before catching sight of Greg. "Hell, what are you doing?"

"Quickly! Pass me this!" Mycroft exclaimed excitedly before Greg could even answer. He took one end of the washing line from Tobias and stuck it in the ground, right next to its previous hole, Tobias quickly copying. "Ok Gregory," Mycroft called. "I want you to jump off the wall, try to swing off this, put one foot down, then land near that stepping stone. That's all."

"That's all my ass," Greg mumbled to himself, but still steeled himself for a harsh landing and some mild rope burn.

Once Tobias and Mycroft were safely away from the washing line, Greg jumped. His legs felt weak the second he left the wall and he immediately regretted his decision, but the washing line was fast approaching, so it was all he could do to reach out and grab it, slow his descent, clumsily plunge his foot into the mud then jump in the general direction of the stepping stone. The momentum caused him to overthrow massively, skidding into the fence, but that was mostly due to the mud. Tobias quickly helped him up. "Are you alright?" A quick nod from Greg confirmed that he was, so they quickly hurried over to Mycroft, who was crouched beside the new footprint.

"Have to allow for the softer mud," he was mumbling as they arrived. "Ok, so they were roughly your weight, Gregory, maybe slightly lighter. Not much though. They were shorter than you though. You see, you had to crouch a lot to be able to swing from the line and put your foot down, resulting in a deeper print, since they didn't have to. The mud prevents me from deducing a suitable entrance to the house, however." Mycroft stood up quickly, then looked as though he regretted it, pressing cool hands against his suddenly flushed face. As Greg reached out to steady him, Mycroft turned quickly and darted down the side of the house, then opened a bin and threw up violently. Greg cursed himself and slapped a hand to his forehead. Idiot. He'd let Mycroft eat an almost entire pizza after God knows how long of eating next to nothing, of course he was going to be sick.

Greg rushed to help Mycroft stay upright. He'd suddenly become very pale and his eyes were slightly glazed, as if he was about to faint again. Each time he blinked was heavy and slow, as if he wanted to fall asleep. "God, sorry Mycroft," Greg said softly. Getting a good hold of Mycroft's shoulders to keep him standing, he saw that Mycroft was now shaking and shivering with the rain and seemed to be having trouble catching his breath, crying involuntarily from the burning in his throat. "Oh God," Greg muttered. "Let's get you inside." He raised his voice to compensate for the rain. "Toby, open the door!"

Greg wrapped an arm around Mycroft's waist and gently steadied his shoulder with the other. Mycroft's breathing had almost returned to normal, but his face was deathly pale and Greg was unsure whether his legs would take his weight or not. Still, he gently guided him to the door, then hesitated when he looked inside. "We're going to contaminate the crime scene," Greg mumbled to himself. He was about to turn back when he looked over at Mycroft, his cheek now gently resting on Greg's shoulder. Greg had thought he looked quite grown up before, dressed to the nines in his fancy clothes and sounding like a little know-it-all, but now he just looked very young and fragile. "Screw it," Greg mumbled, pulling Mycroft inside. Tobias followed closely, closing the door behind them.

"Lie down, put your feet up," Greg said softly. Looking round for things that made as little impact as possible, Greg grabbed a cushion off one of the kitchen chairs to put under Mycroft's head then rested his feet on the bar of a chair. "Do you want a drink? Can you hear me? Are-"

"Shh!" Tobias cut Greg off sharply. "Calm down, stop panicking him!" He knelt down beside Mycroft and said, very softly and calmly, "Can you breath? Or should I call an ambulance?"

"I'm... Fine," Mycroft replied, though his speech was very slow and quiet. "But... the back door... I know how they got in." Without a second thought Greg jumped up and threw the door open again.

"I don't see anything," he yelled, his voice becoming slightly high in panic and anticipation.

"The, cat," Mycroft said, his voice slightly stronger now.

"The what?" Greg exclaimed, pulling his head back inside to frown at Mycroft, then quickly sticking it back out again. "The cat!" He shouted happily a few moments later, much to Tobias' confusion. Rain dripped off Greg's coat as he hurried back inside. "The cat statue on the doorstep," he beamed. "There's a key inside!"

By this point Mycroft had sat himself up and bent his head between his knees to try and reduce the nauseating feeling. Greg knelt down in front of him. "Mycroft you're fantastic!" He said, a little too loudly for Mycroft's liking. "But how did you know?"

"The man, the dead man-" Mycroft's voice was back to its usual rumble "-he had OCD. The cat was squint. He never would've had it like that. And where it's positioned is sheltered from the wind, he doesn't want it to blow off his key, you see? So someone else must have moved it."

Silence hung thickly in the air for a moment as Greg and Tobias marvelled at how smart Mycroft was and Mycroft revelled in it. Then Tobias asked, "But how do you know he was OCD?"

"Simple," Mycroft smiled, happy to offer up more knowledge. "He sat in the same chair every day, used the same two cushions, even when they became old and he had new ones. All mug handles face the left, washed dishes stacked from front to back on the draining board. Everything either straight, at ninety or forty five degrees. Everything clean." Both policemen gaped at him. "Oh, don't worry," Mycroft added cheerily. "Mental health issues are so much easier to spot when you have the condition yourself."

"Oh, umm... I'm sorry," Greg mumbled, snapping himself out of his daze.

"What's to be sorry for? All of my things are constantly both organised and clean, it's an advantage, really, if you can keep the intrusive thoughts at bay."

The kitchen was silent for a moment as they each sat and thought. Greg was desperate to get back to the station and work with the new evidence, but even more desperate to get Mycroft home. However something told him that that would be a mistake. Mycroft Holmes was proving to be quite the genius, not just in his field, whatever that may be, but at this. At police work and investigating and crime solving. And at certain points during the day Greg had even thought Mycroft to be enjoying himself. He did seem 'more of the sitting down type' as a friend of his mother's would've put it, as Greg could imagine Mycroft reclining in a comfortable armchair with case files spread around him, and he would call officers in to him to tell them what they'd so stupidly missed. Greg looked down at Mycroft and thought: then he'd be terribly, awfully fat. He instantly felt bad for thinking that, although it was undoubtably true, then shook away his thoughts and jumped up.

"One last check of the house," Greg mumbled softly to himself. "What can I... Observe?"

"Anything that's an obliquity!" Mycroft was struggling to get up, much to Tobias' distress, but he was grinning at Greg.

"Sorry, a what?" Greg asked, a baffled look firmly settled on his face. Over the past few hours it had become quite at home there.

"An obliquity," Mycroft repeated calmly. "Something that's neither parallel nor at a right angle to a specified line." Greg's expression didn't shift. "Stuff that's squint," Mycroft sighed finally. Greg's face lit up.

"Oh! Yeah!" He bounded out into the hall, but rushed quickly back to the kitchen at the sound of a loud thud. Mycroft was sprawled on the floor again, looking no worse for ware (well, than he had previously, anyway) but slightly annoyed.

"Suppose I'd better stay here then," he grumbled. Tobias nodded heartily, but Greg shook his head.

"No, you'd better come with me."

"What?" Tobias exclaimed. Greg got to work carefully helping Mycroft up and get his balance on shaky legs. "I know how he feels, Toby. It's not just our case anymore, it's his too. Mycroft has every right to know what happens and every right to help us close the case." He turned suddenly to Mycroft, uncomfortably invading his personal space. "But don't think for one second I'm not mad at you for... For being a genius or whatever! You're going to bed as soon as we get home!"

"Yes, mother," Mycroft sighed, rolling his eyes. Seemingly oblivious to the death glare Greg was shooting him, Tobias shaped his hands in to a little heart and waved it around.

With Greg practically dragging Mycroft, who was overly eager but not particularly able, in to the next room, he began to look around for things he may have missed the first time around, but was disappointed not to find anything. "There's nothing suspicious here," he sighed, preparing to move on.

"Wrong," Mycroft mumbled softly. Greg tilted his head inquiringly.

"There." A triumphant grin spread across his face, Mycroft pointed to a school picture of a teenage girl on the mantlepiece. "Gregory Lestrade, Tobias Gregson, I think I've solved your case!"

~

Everyone was utterly baffled, and Mycroft revelled in it. He loved to be the smartest person in the room, which was exactly why he wasn't telling anyone anything, and was instead searching a police data base and eating a bacon sandwich. Greg had originally given him a cheese sandwich, but he'd completely dismissed it, so Greg had turned around and snatched Tobias' bacon sandwich off him, much to his annoyance, and given it to Mycroft. He had apologised to Tobias later, but to be honest he hadn't really meant it, because the bacon tasted so good. His mother never, ever let him have this at home, and even cold it was one of the best things he'd ever tasted.

"Mycroft, I give up!" Greg snapped finally. It had been fifteen minutes, after all, and Mycroft had whipped NSY in to a frenzy. "Who killed that man and why?"

"First of all," Mycroft said lazily, making one final click on the data base, "Who are you holding suspect? Who is he to the man?" Greg began to protest, but Tobias, being of a much more patient nature, cut him off.

"His son."

"Marvellous!" An almost familiar face flashed on to the monitor with a soft 'bing', and Mycroft spun his chair to face both Greg and Tobias. "Ok," he giggled. "Show time!

"The boy you're holding is the man's son, he comes from a legitimate relationship, from what I've seen about the house they're quite close, boy's parents are divorced, but his father has a lot of pictures of him from when he was younger, more specifically of them together, they look very happy..." He trailed off suddenly and, ignoring his audience, pulled the small, red notebook from his pocket. It was empty, aside from a carefully folded drawing he'd slipped in there before he'd left. William had done it, only last year, and it was of himself, their father, Mycroft, and a large red setter. It was incredible, for a ten year old, although the drawings were more manga-like than realistic. Mycroft could still see the faint, rubbed-out lines where William had given him a plate of cakes to hold, then felt bad about it and rubbed it out. He chuckled to himself and rolled his eyes. But the greatest thing about the picture, the thing that warmed Mycroft to the very core like nothing else in the world could, was the fact that everyone was smiling. William was laughing jubilantly like Mycroft had not seen him do for a long time, his arms flung around the neck of the dog, who even appeared to grinning itself. Their father was smiling proudly, a hand on Mycroft's shoulder, and Mycroft was blushing, displaying a shy, awkward smile, the only thing he could manage.

"Are you... Ok?" Mycroft's head snapped up, everything suddenly coming in to sharp focus, and he found that Greg was gently touching his shoulder and Tobias was watching him worriedly.

"Mm," he mumbled, almost sleepily.

"Is that your brother?" Greg pointed to the tall, slim boy with dark shaded hair.

"Mm," Mycroft repeated. "William, yes."

"And did he draw this? It's really good. You look cute, I think he got your smile pretty dead on!" Nodding his head in agreement, Mycroft folded the picture back up and placed it in the notebook, then tucked it back in to his pocket.

"Where was I? Ah, yes, loving father!

"So, he had one child, but no! That boy you're holding is twenty years old, however on his file it says that he may have a second child, from long ago, when he was leaving school, so what I think happened-"

"You think?" Greg exclaimed. Mycroft clamped a hand over his mouth and continued.

"So what I think happened is that this other child got in contact with him, that's how she knew about the key and the washing line, but when she saw how close he was with this other child, she became jealous, now it's probably about money, it's always about money, she won't get any inheritance, he didn't know about her until weeks ago, my guess, wait! Missed something! The photo of the teenager! It's the girl's mother, I suppose, the father wants to evoke some sympathy, make it seem like he loved her, anyway! Money! So there no way this girl can get money, but if the father dies and the son's framed for it he doesn't get a penny either, it's likely she'd be tracked down if he has no other close relatives, and there you go! She's rich, oh! I didn't mention that! He's rich!"

"That's... Brilliant!" Greg exclaimed after a while. Mycroft had been talking so fast and what he was saying was a little hard to swallow. "Wow, thank you!" He leaned forward and hugged Mycroft excitedly.

"Oh! You're showing gratitude!" He beamed proudly.

"Yeah," Greg giggled. "But do you have proof?"

"Maybe..." Mycroft smirked, then whipped around and clicked on a picture of a girl not unlike the one they'd seen on the mantlepiece. "This should show us if she's suddenly got more money in the ban-" he froze mid-sentence.

"What? What is it?" Greg asked, leaning desperately over his should to glimpse the screen. "What am I looking at, Mycroft?"

"She's dead," Mycroft whispered, dumbfounded. "She... She's dead, she died a few hours ago, she's just committed suicide, we're looking at the hospital report." He stared at the screen for a few more moments, then seemed to crumple in on himself, arms wrapped around his waist, head lolling forward. "I'm sorry," he whispered, genuine emotion flooding his voice, soft features contorting into a combination of terror and guilt. "I... Got it wrong... I don't understand! I'm so sorry, I... I'm so, so sorry."

"It's ok," Tobias said comfortingly. "This isn't even your job, you've not done badly. You've still given us loads of evidence, it's fine."

"But it had to be her!" Mycroft wailed. "I can't... I can not have got it wrong!" Tobias started to comfort him again, but Greg stopped him.

"No, Toby," he said, a thoughtful look on his face. "Mycroft's right. It has to be her, it is her, I know it! You're not wrong Mycroft, you are not wrong, and I'm going to prove it!"

Jumping up, Greg raced across the room until he reached his desk, then he scattered papers on to the floor until he found what he was looking for, before racing back. "His file," Greg beamed. "The woman, in the picture, the one who's daughter you searched in the data base, this is her name, right?" He waved the file in Mycroft face, finger underlining a name.

"Helen Thatcher... Yes, that's her," he nodded. "But why's it in his file?"

"Look! Thirty two years ago, the same age as the woman who died, this man was brought to court for a case of sexual assault! It was dropped, poor girl couldn't prove anything, but they went to school together, it says. The girl, Helen, supposedly had a child, but no tests were done to prove if it was his or not. Mother swore it was, but no one would listen to her, bloody hell! This is a bit thick! Bugger had it coming, if you ask me. Girl had every right, after what he did to her mother."

"You can't say that," Tobias muttered. "But for what it's worth, I completely agree."

"I know what happened." Mycroft's voice was so soft no one would've heard it, if Greg hadn't been waiting for him to speak. "She didn't want money. She wanted revenge. Her mother must have mistreated her, maybe even abandoned her, it must have been hard raising a child alone, at that age, with no proper income. I've done a background check, she didn't have a good life. Moved jobs a lot, a few minor crimes. She wanted revenge for her life. She... She never asked to be born, and it was all his fault. She couldn't die knowing he was happy. So she got in touch, feigned a friendly reunion. He put the picture up in the hopes of persuading her he was amicable with her mother, to try and persuade her he hadn't done what he'd done. She wasn't convinced, so after finding out a little about his house she broke in and did him in with a kitchen knife, from her own house, of course. Then wiped it clean and offed herself, I suppose. It was just a coincidence the boy was there. Poor Alice."

"Was that her name?" Tobias asked quietly, more than a little shocked.

"Yes. Alice Thatcher. I won't forget that name in a hurry. Unfortunately everyone else will," Mycroft sighed. For a while everyone let the silence become thick on the almost deserted floor, then the soft rustle of Greg's jacket broke it as he shifted uncomfortably. He took it as an opportunity to speak.

"No. No one'll be forgetting that name, not thanks to us. We've solved the case. The boy can go, we'll tell everyone about this. Sure, she killed him, but I'll be damned if she's remembered as a murderer."

Tobias stood up and clasped Greg's shoulder. "Good job mate. I'll take the evidence and hand it in to the commissioner. You two get home."

"Thanks Toby." Greg hugged him warmly. "Here's to something a little more light hearted next time." Mycroft watched Tobias run off with a handful of papers and files, then turned to Greg, suddenly feeling as tired as he ought to be.

"Gregory, please may we go home?" He yawned, Greg's shoulder was suddenly looking like a great place to sleep and he wanted to avoid that awkward situation.

"Course, I have been promising that all evening," Greg smiled. "And I'm really sorry, Mycroft. That certainly wasn't a nice case to deal with. But I couldn't have done it without you, and I want everyone to know him for the criminal he was." No matter how desperate he was to reply, all traces of adrenaline had finally run out of Mycroft veins and he wasn't even sure if he could form coherent speech, so instead he just nodded lazily and followed Greg to the lift.

~

Mycroft had slept peacefully on Greg's shoulder all the way home, one hand clutching Greg's arm to keep him in a comfortable position and the other inside his blazer, on the red notebook. In return, Greg had shamelessly cuddled Mycroft against his side and gently rested his head against Mycroft's curly locks. His hair had smelt of apples, which Greg liked, but he'd kind of expected it to smell of ginger. Only because he used ginger shampoo himself, but he began to wonder absent-mindedly if that was in some way prejudice against people with ginger hair. Then he began to wonder if Mycroft's hair was really ginger, or if it was red, and when it was dark enough it actually looked brown...

"Gregory." Turning lazily, Greg found Mycroft stood in the doorway to his room, blue, striped pyjamas engulfing his sleepy form.

"Go to bed," Greg said softly, getting up and gently pushing Mycroft back into his room, where he collapsed on to the bed. He wriggled like a kitten until he was at the top of the bed, then rolled over to let Greg sit down.

"I just wanted to apologise for ruining your case." Mycroft was sat up now and regarding Greg with a very serious manner. "I fear I caused you a lot of trouble, and I didn't even manage to solve the case correctly. I promise to stay out of affairs in the future." The look of pure fear on Mycroft's face made Greg's heart ache. What did he think he was going to do? He knew he would never do anything to hurt Mycroft, he was too delicate and innocent. So instead he pulled him into a tight hug, face buried in Mycroft's curls. He gave Mycroft the opportunity to push him off, but he didn't seem to want to, tucking his head into Greg's shoulder and holding on tightly to his shirt.

"You didn't ruin my case," Greg murmured in to Mycroft's hair. "I never could've done it without you. Without you an innocent man would've gone to jail. You did nothing wrong, you're fantastic, Mycroft. I want your help on every single case I ever do for the rest of my life. And I'm sure Toby does, too. You're not a problem, there's nothing wrong with you, you're just a brilliant, brilliant young man. It's not trouble to look after you, I'm just glad someone finally did. If you're going to stay here you have to eat, every day, and... You're incredible and I won't let anyone hurt you and now I'm talking too much so I'm just going to stop before I say anything too weird." Looking down at the little boy clinging to his chest, Greg really appreciated how pretty Mycroft was. He didn't have any particularly striking features, not alone, anyway; but altogether he had the sweetest soft features and large eyes and full lips, and for years afterwards, Greg continued to wonder; if Mycroft hadn't fallen asleep, would he have kissed him?

But Mycroft did fall asleep, very securely nestled into Greg's chest. Greg didn't know it, but this was the first time Mycroft had slept properly in months, because it was the first time he'd ever felt safe since he was eight years old. Greg sat for a long time, hours, in a dream-like state, gently rubbing a hand up and down Mycroft's back, gently stroking his hair, gently touching his cheek, before realising that it was very early morning and that he should get some sleep himself. Then he laid Mycroft down and tucked the covers around his neck, resisted kissing the loose curls cascading over his forehead, and went to bed himself.

~

Dim morning light filtered through Mycroft's bedroom curtains, so he stretched out lazily in the beam and checked his bedside clock. 07:15 exactly; just what he'd been expecting. Swinging his legs off the bed and his feet into slippers, Mycroft began to get ready for his first day of university.

It was two weeks since he'd moved in with Greg, and Mycroft was embarrassed to say he'd spent a good deal of the time either sleeping, eating, or watching television with Greg. They had spent one day in a cafe down the street, that also happened to have a huge library upstairs, so Mycroft had spent that day drinking strong coffee and eating brownies and reading in German; then he'd spent the night practically bouncing off the walls.

Mycroft wandered in to the kitchen in just his shirt and suit pants, hoping to find still boiling water in the kettle from before Greg had left, but instead he found a small box and a note on the counter.

_Dear Mycroft,  
Had to rush off, as usual, but wanted to wish you luck with your first day of government studies (I have my sources :) and by that I mean you, high on caffeine!). Just remember that you're wonderful and brilliant and I have every faith that you're going to become prime minister one day ;)_

_There are bacon sandwiches in the fridge, please don't eat these before you get to uni, they're for your lunch, and something I hope you'll like in this box. Have a good day and please don't make any annoying friends, I don't want them coming over here!_

_Love Greg :)_

Mycroft reached shyly for the small, fabric box, and flipped the lid open, revealing a silver tie patterned with dark grey umbrellas. He smiled and said, "It's beautiful," to no one in particular. After fastening the tie under his collar, Mycroft set about eating his 'only for lunch time' sandwiches and drinking a cup of tea. He was in no great hurry to get to university, but he couldn't wait to get back home and tell Greg all about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said, I had once intended to write a whole series, but then I moved onto new interests and working more on original and this was years ago now so apologies for the abrupt ending. Maybe one day I'll write a few more stories, I don't know, but please don't hold your breath.
> 
> I do remember a lot of what I was going to write and I still love Sherlock, so if you wanna talk about it my tumblr is nobody-official and I promise I'm friendly! But also I understand that this sucked and I'm terrible for not finishing it.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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